


putting out the fire with gasoline

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [14]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fellcest - Freeform, M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 18:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red makes his bad mood everyone else's problem.





	putting out the fire with gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in the end notes.

Red is in one of his moods.

It's hardly surprising, given how things ended between them last night. Red didn't come back to bed. He went to his room, the door closed between them. His utter silence pressurized the air in their home like a storm coming in. Edge did not sleep.

When Red comes slouching into the kitchen the next morning, tension radiates from every angle of his body like a bristling warning. He hasn't bothered to put on his hoodie. Edge knows his body intimately but it always catches him off guard how small his brother really is without the protective bulk of his jacket.

They look at each other. The distance between the coffeemaker and the door to the kitchen seems like miles.

One word. It was one fucking word.

"Hey, boss," Red says evenly.

Edge studies him. He doesn't have Red's way with expressions. He wishes he did if only so he could see beneath Red's damned masks. His brother is mercurial at the best of times. Approach or ignore? Touch or keep safely out of biting distance?

Before he decides, Red takes another couple steps closer. His eyes are too bright. "Heh. Kinda left you hanging last night."

"In several ways," Edge says. He puts his mug of tea down and crosses his arms. "But I presume you mean the sex."

The corners of Red's eyes tighten. "Yeah," he says, in a tone that says Edge is a fucking idiot for implying anything else. "That's what I mean. Maybe I should make it up to you."

Edge considers the hollows under his eyes, the strain in his grin, the subtle way he tips his chin up to give Edge a good view of his throat. His eyelights are a little glassy. It may not just be what he said last night; Red’s LV might be flaring up and affecting his mood as well. Bad timing for it. 

Edge sighs and pushes himself off the counter. Crossing the kitchen in three strides, he crowds into Red's space and hooks his fingers in Red's collar. He pulls, forcing Red onto his toes to keep from choking. Red grabs onto his wrist but there's exhausted relief in his eyes as he stares up into Edge's face like a supplicant. Despite everything, Edge feels a distracting tug of sheer _want_ , his magic primed to respond to Red's submission.

"Maybe you should," Edge says.

He doesn't let go of Red's collar for an instant until Red is barebones on his bed, and he only releases his grip so that he can unbuckle his belt and unwind it from his belt loops. Red watches in unnerving silence, tension vibrating in him every second that Edge's hands aren't on him. He holds out his wrists for the belt without Edge even asking. There's no resistance in him, no fight.

Edge stops, his belt in his hands. When he starts to put it aside, Red says, desperation creeping into his hoarse voice, "I need this."

He doesn't have a good feeling about this, but he has a worse feeling about refusing. This is the only comfort Red will accept from him.

So Edge binds his wrists together. He pushes Red onto the bed, pinning his arms above his head, and looms over him for a moment to say, "Stay."

There's a flash of momentary life in Red's eyes. Edge tenses, ready to duck out of the way if Red tries to club him in the face with his bound hands or knee him somewhere painful, but the spark flickers out. Red stays where Edge put him.

Edge considers his options. He knows what Red wants from him: for Edge to use him for his own pleasure. It's half apology and half sharp reminder that this is what Red is good for. Nothing else.

After only a few seconds, Red squirms and demands, "What the fuck are you waiting for, me to die of old age? Do something!"

Irritation is better than that tense, unhappy silence. Edge reaches out and runs his finger along the rim of Red's ischium. Red jerks, spine arching. The bone is still cool to the touch, but the second he lays hands on Red's pelvis, there's a warm prickle of gathering magic. Red's good enough with his magic to force it to do what he wants. Edge hates it when he does that. Bad enough that Red lies with his words; he doesn’t need to do it with his body.

He takes his hand away and Red huffs out another breath, probably about to complain, until Edge climbs on top of him. It's a risk to echo the position they were in last night but Red likes to be pinned, surrounded, overwhelmed. 

For a moment, their faces are intimately close. Edge would kiss him but he knows Red wouldn't take it well in this mood. Instead he takes Red by the chin, tipping his head back and baring his throat until the angle has to be uncomfortable. He hears the dry click when Red swallows and the sigh when Edge licks a path up the side of his cervical spine, tasting him, familiar and warm. When he bites down, Red moans, turning his head to the side. Slowly, almost unwillingly, the cartilage between his vertebrae begins to heat beneath Edge's mouth.

Bracing himself on one elbow, Edge lets his hand roam Red's body. The scarred sweep of his ribs, rising and falling as he breathes. The sensitive plane of his sternum. His spine, stiff with that killing tension. It's Edge's territory, intimately familiar, and he maps it with the tips of his fingers for the places that make Red breathe a little faster and press into his hands.

"Come on," Red says, half a laugh or at least something resembling it. "Do something." Edge closes his teeth around Red's collar, feeling the buzz of magic on his tongue. Red hitches in a breath. "Harder."

Edge bites him again, lower down his spine, no harder than the first. Red makes a discontented noise, the sheets rustling as his hands move a little. Without raising his head, Edge reaches up and grabs his wrists in one hand, squeezing in warning. Against Red's spine, he says, "I told you to stay."

A shiver ripples through Red, leaving him a little less tense in its wake. Pressing Red's wrists into the bed, a silent warning, Edge goes back to exploring his body. At the end of a slow caress, he rakes his fingers down Red's ribs, hard enough to leave marks, and Red moans, arching into him almost hard enough to push him off. There's a pulse of heat where Edge is pressed against Red's pelvis like he narrowly avoided his magic forming when he doesn't know what Edge wants from him.

"Harder," Red says again, breathing unsteadily. Too close to a demand. 

Edge strokes the new scratches, following the hot little lines, barely any pressure. His tone almost sweet, he says, “You’re not in charge here. Must I remind you?”

Red hisses his frustration, twisting restlessly under Edge's hands. "Boss--"

Edge pulls back to meet his eyes. Red looks back at him, eyelights shrinking a little at the expression on his face. Quietly, evenly, Edge says, "Don't push me, brother. You won't like the results."

Red averts his eyes. There's a wildness in them and Edge thinks, again, that he'll lash out. He'll force Edge to put him on his knees. But he doesn't move, fighting himself to try to give Edge what he asks for. That's not unusual. Still, Edge continues watching his face as he puts his hand back on the livid new marks and drags his fingers across them again. Red shudders, his eyes closing.

"I'll hurt you," Edge says. Red's closed eyelids flinch like he's dreaming and he shifts his hips up against Edge, the movement like a silent question. Edge reaches down his body, brushing his knuckle against Red's pubic symphysis (the bone is hot against his fingers now) and then dips his fingers inside the pubic crest where the magic is fluid and crackling. "I’ll give you what you need."

Red's eyes snap open, the eyelights shrunken to almost nothing, and he blurts, "Quark! Quark, let me up--"

The safeword. He's never used the safeword.

Edge rolls off of him. Red is fighting the belt hard enough to break something and Edge catches hold of the belt, undoing it with traitorously unsteady fingers. As soon as it's loose, Red scrambles off the bed and out of reach. It hurts more than if Red attacked him, but Edge's feelings have nothing to do with this.

When they started this, Red had laughed at the idea of a safeword. Only the fact that Edge refused to explore rougher sex without one had gotten him to agree, bitching and rolling his eyes the whole time. Everything that Edge has done to him, the times that Red has fought and begged and (once or twice) cried, and he's never--

Red rubs his wrists, staring at Edge like he's a stranger.

"All right," Edge says. Thankfully, the words come out steadily. He raises a hand and drops it when Red only stares at it, wild-eyed. "Are you hurt?"

"Don't," Red snarls. The anger is settling over his fear like it always does. "What the fuck was that?"

Nothing Edge hadn't done and said a thousand times. All he'd asked for was patience. But he knew Red was in one of his black moods and that something was wrong, he _knew_. This is on him. He has to fix it.

"A mistake," Edge says. "It's over now. Come here and let me have a look at your wrist."

"How many times have I goddamn told you--" Red starts, and Edge braces himself for the old familiar refrain, but Red cuts himself off, his mouth flattening at the corners. Jerkily, he snatches his pants off the floor. That's understandable; he must feel exposed. It's when he grabs his boots that Edge gets alarmed.

"Where do you think you're going?" Edge asks. "Sit down." When Red just shakes his head, still pulling on his boots, Edge gets off the bed and takes a few steps towards him. Red backs away from him, almost tripping in his haste. Edge tries again. "Sans--"

Red stops like a machine that had its cord pulled. When he raises his head, his grin is cold enough to burn. "Oh, is _that_ the problem."

That grin is trouble. A warning chill runs up Edge’s spine. He says, "This has nothing to do with Sans."

"You got us confused," Red says. Despite the laugh in his voice, there's no humor in his eyes.

"I couldn't get you confused if I tried," Edge says. He takes another step forward and Red backs up out of reach.

"Your little crush got your head all twisted around," Red says. "He's got you thinking that this is gonna last so you've gotta be something nice and tame."

"And so you've decided it was his fault you slipped last night?" Edge says. 

Red's grin flinches for a second and then steadies. He shakes his head like the words are something physical to shoo away. "Aw, did I hurt your feelings? Sometimes a guy says the wrong name in the sack. It's not a big fucking deal."

Clearly.

"I won't force you to deal with it," Edge says. He holds out his hand. "Come back to bed and we'll try again if you'd like, or you can put on the TV, smoke weed and ignore me. Just come here and let me check your wrists first."

"So goddamn nice of you to give me all these choices," Red says with acid sweetness. The grin drops off his face. "I need some air."

"Don't--!" Edge says, meaning to finish _you fucking dare_ but the room is empty before he gets that far. Red is gone.

He's alone.

***

“... okay?”

Sans almost misses Grillby’s voice under the familiar commotion of the bar. Even after second breakfast (a useful phrase he picked up from reading to Frisk before bedtime, Tolkien was onto something there) he’s still a little dizzy. It’s possible that trying to cram in some quick delivery jobs this morning wasn’t the best decision he could’ve made, though it’s normally a cinch. Who knew?

He likes Grillby. Grillby’s face is mostly blank, not much to read there beside body language and the color of his flames. It’s relaxing to hang out with somebody without his mind interpreting every single microexpression in detail, a running commentary he can’t turn off. When he and Papyrus showed up in Snowdin, all the stuff they owned shoved in their inventories, a shiny new crack burning away in Sans’s soul, Grillby was the one to give him a job washing dishes and let him keep a tab so they didn’t go hungry. (Unsurprisingly, Gaster didn’t pay well.) Grillby’s a good guy. Quiet, though, and it’s pretty rare that he bothers to speak. Sans clearly needs to up his game if people outside his family are starting to ask questions.

He grins and takes a swig of ketchup. “Sure. Aren’t I always?”

Grillby just looks at him. For an expressionless guy, that look is pretty expressive.

“Ouch. Sick burn. Don’t get all fired up, buddy. You’re gonna give me the warm fuzzies.” Grillby continues to give him The Look. Sans slides off his stool, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s just my allergy to work acting up. Lucky thing I’m so good at taking breaks. Put it on my tab, huh?”

Grillby burns a little dimmer, the equivalent of an eye roll, and goes back to cleaning glasses. Sans gives the dog guard a drive-by joke (how can you tell when a poker player is lying? his chips are moving) and then he’s out the door.

And Red’s on the sidewalk. Waiting.

There's a look on Red's face that Sans has never seen before. Desperation, rage, fear. It kills the easy words on his tongue. Alarmed, he breaks his golden rule and asks, "Dude, are you--"

Red grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him into the alley, past the dumpsters, out of easy sight of the street. It's all Sans can do to keep his feet under him, backpedaling until his back hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He has a moment to wonder if Red just killed him but no, his HP didn't even take a hit. He's fine. Aside from the pissed off monster smiling in his face like the glint off a knife, anyway.

"I guess it's not enough for you to fuck up your own bro," Red says. "You gotta go and fuck up mine."

That stings. Still, Sans keeps his expression even and his body relaxed. Red might not have had the intent to hurt him by shoving him against the wall but that could change if something trips his survival instincts. "What's your problem?"

"You’re my fucking problem," Red says. "You and this whole goddamn universe. All this soft and squishy bullshit. It ain't my style, y'know?"

"Take it up with universal causality," Sans says. "It's not my fault you ended up here."

"Maybe it ain't," Red says. "But you're the one trying to make him something he's not because you're too fucking squeamish to deal with it. That's on you."

"Trouble in paradise?" Sans asks. 

It's a stupid thing to say. Red bounces him off the wall once (his HP doesn’t even flinch) and then leans into him, pinning him against the wall. Sans's body decides this is a good time to have opinions about Red pressed up against him, hot and close.

"You think this is funny?" Red asks. There's a glitter in his eyes that says he finds it hilarious himself, the kind of joke that ends with blood on the floor. "Look at you. You're all fucked up from what the kid did but that ain't nothing. You don't know what it's like there. You didn't have to live it. You're gonna get him killed and it's a _joke_ to you."

Sans knew all along exactly who Red is. He sees Red's LV every time he looks at him, but over the months, that shrill fire alarm of danger-danger-get-out-now has faded into the background through sheer repetition. He stopped seeing the Red that murdered 16 people and started seeing the Red that makes obnoxious jokes and has a weird thing for bad dirty talk. He let himself forget what Red is.

"Worried now, buddy?" Red asks. "What for? It's not like you give a shit if you live or die."

There are hollows carved under Red's eyes, a hair-trigger twitchiness. When he looks at Red's throat, he can see bruises where Edge bit down. Edge worked him over and it wasn't enough. Red either lied well enough to convince Edge (doubtful) or slipped out while Edge was distracted (probable). So here Red is, torching bridges, and it would be so, so easy to throw gasoline on the fire. Sans knows how to hurt people too. Himself best of all.

"Red," Sans starts.

And then Red's hand is around his throat. Sans freezes like Red's eyelights are the headlights of an oncoming car. Red's grip doesn't hurt but all it'd take is one good squeeze. He can breathe, but he's aware of every breath and the fact that he's only taking them because Red allows it.

"That's not my fucking name," Red says almost pleasantly. _Nice day out, fuck with me and I'll break your neck._ Seeing Sans's expression, he scoffs out a laugh. "Here's the thing. I put up with the nicknames. I put up with your rules and your pity and your judgy fucking attitude. I play nice. But that don't make me what I’m not."

There's a heat low in Sans's spine. Red’s fingers are warm around his throat. He can feel his soul beating fast and heady. He's learning all kinds of things about himself today, and Red pales in comparison.

"If you're trying to be scary, you're gonna have to get in line behind the 11 year old," Sans says, his voice a little strained despite the fact that Red isn't putting any pressure on his throat. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You think I won't kill you just because you and me fucked a few times?" Red asks.

"I think you won't kill me because if you were gonna, I wouldn't have seen it coming."

"Because that's how you'd do it, right?" Red says. "All your judge bullshit and you think like a killer. The only reason you don't have LV is a technicality."

It's like Red dunked Sans's soul in ice water. For a second, he can't even control his expression because _how the fuck does he know_ , he can't know, the only other one who was there is six years gone. Sans’s sins don’t show in his expression when he looks in the mirror. A technicality. Red would’ve said something, wouldn’t he? Red would’ve thrown Sans’s hypocrisy in his face months ago. Unless Sans slipped up somehow, unless he--

Red's eyes narrow with sudden interest. He leans back to examine Sans. "Well, I was gonna say because nobody's ever pushed you that far, but that expression.... now that's real interesting."

He doesn't know about Gaster.

The relief washes over Sans in a warm wave. He leans harder against the wall, swallowing, and it just reminds him that Red's hand is still there keeping him from taking a full breath.

"Those resets," Sans says, resenting the little wobble in his voice even if it’s useful for effect. "I killed the kid a couple of times. At least. Thanks for bringing it up."

"You're twenty pounds of lies in a five pound bag, sweetheart," Red says. "Lying to Paps, lying to me, lying to yourself, lying to the kid, lying to those poor suckers who think they're your friends... can't be good for your soul. Hey, since I got you here, how _is_ your--"

The world's most annoying ringtone shrills out from the pocket of Red’s shorts. Red flinches.

"Somebody looking for you?" Sans asks. He wonders how many messages Edge left on the cell Sans doubtless left at home or didn’t charge. Edge would’ve tried to warn him.

"Fuck him," Red says with unexpected viciousness. He reaches into his pocket, grabs his cell phone and drops it deliberately to the ground. It cracks and goes silent. "And fuck you too."

Well. That is Sans’s number one strategy, isn’t it.

Sans lays his head back against the wall so he can look Red in the eyes. "Sure," he says casually. “If you want. We can make this interesting."

Red blinks. Then he smiles like a razor. "Really now."

"Blank check,” Sans says with a lightness he doesn’t feel. “One time only."

Red laughs, a harsh bark of sound, and tightens his grip until the bone creaks. Sans jerks, choking halfway through a breath, and Red slides his thigh up between his. The friction against his pubic symphysis is the last straw; Sans’s magic flickers into shape. Red must feel it through their clothes because his mouth quirks knowingly. There’s a familiar heat in his eyes. "Y'know, there's a difference between not caring if you die and going around looking for it. I should know."

Sans can't even shake his head or squeak out an answer. His soul is pounding so hard and fast it feels like it might fracture around the fault lines and break into pieces. Red's grin flickers, a moment of hesitation. So Sans reaches up and curls his fingers around Red's, making them dig in harder. He can feel it bruising.

Red tilts his head, considering him for a long moment. Then he unzips Sans's jacket with one hand and takes hold of the bottom of his shirts.

A spark of alarm bordering on terror. Sans grabs his wrist. Red lets him because it was never his intention to follow through anyway. He's making a point.

"Maybe you oughta redefine your fucking terms, babe," Red says. He loosens his grip and Sans sucks in a breath, his head swimming from the flood of oxygen. But Red seems calmer, some of that frenetic energy redirected from murderous anger to a new focus. Sans has him interested. “Don’t go giving me a blank check. ‘Specially when I’m in this mood. Try again.”

Try again. Not a hard no. Sans swallows. “The shirts stay on. Don’t touch my soul. Try not to dust me. Don’t…” Compared to the rest of it, it’s such a stupid limit and Red might laugh in his face. “Don’t just get me off and leave.”

“No one way bullshit,” Red says, amused. “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.”

“You can’t be surprised I’m a hypocrite,” Sans says. “Are you interested or do you wanna go back to trying to psychoanalyze me to death? I’ll try not to doze off.”

“There’s something really wrong with you,” Red says. Pushing himself off the wall, he puts some space between them. He gives Sans a long moment where he’s not touching him at all. Time to escape if he wants. Even in this mood, he’s giving Sans an out. He’s better than he thinks he is. Sans would’ve stayed even if he wasn’t.

Sans yawns. Shrugs. “Yeah, probably. You wanna break into a no-tell hotel or are we gonna do it here?”

“What d’you got against fucking in bedrooms?” Red asks. “We’ll go to my place.”

“What about your bro?” Sans asks.

A flash of that agitation in Red’s eyes, even if his grin doesn’t change a bit. “He ain’t gonna interrupt. He’s out trying to track me down before I do something--” Red wiggles his fingers.”-- _craaaaazy_.”

Interesting words from somebody with that manic glitter in his eyes, bright and sharp as broken glass, but Sans doesn’t say it. He gestures vaguely at himself. “Then do something crazy.”

Red’s grin is wolfish. He snags Sans by the front of the hoodie, wrapping his other hand around Sans’s throat. Even as Red drags him through the shortcut, in the utter nothing of the void, Sans can feel the pressure of Red’s fingers.

Then they’re in Red’s bedroom. He’s on his back on the mattress, Red a sudden weight of top of him. The sudden switch from vertical to horizontal is disorienting. One hand still on Sans’s throat, Red jerks Sans’s shorts down, then his own. Red’s bones are feverishly warm against him.

“I gotta give you, Sansy,” Red says thoughtfully. His thumb strokes down Sans’s spine, putting just enough pressure to restrict his breathing a little. “You ain’t boring.”

He shoves his free hand between Sans’s legs. Red's eyes flare brighter like a match being struck as he feels how wet Sans is, and despite everything, Sans's face goes hot. Red grins with a kind of vicious joy, just barely dipping his fingers in between the folds, not actually touching anything that needs to be touched. Sans tries to push into his hand and Red tightens his grip on his throat, tsking like a disappointed teacher. Sans's body gives a dizzy throb and he can feel himself getting wetter, soaking Red's fingers.

Almost tenderly, Red says, "You're kind of a freak, aren't you?"

Apparently, yeah. It's as hilarious as it is terrifying. Red's thumb ghosts over his clit, barely any pressure, and Sans almost chokes on the sharp breath he takes in.

"If we do this, I ain't gonna take it easy on you this time," Red warns.

Easy. Sans thinks of Red's hand over his mouth as he came so hard he blacked out, Red fucking his throat until his head felt dizzy and strange, all the times that Red refused to let him have nice uncomplicated (unsatisfying) sex. _Easy_.

Another chance to bolt. Red would let him go. He'd probably find some other outlet, although not a good one. He might be okay. He must’ve gone through this a hundred times before. He doesn't need Sans's help. This isn't smart. This isn't safe. This isn't uncomplicated.

Sans meets his eyes and grinds deliberately into Red's hand. That time he manages to get Red's fingers to graze his clit, a jolt of contact. Red takes his hand off of Sans's throat, and the sudden lack of pressure feels like having his gravity flipped. Sans gasps in sweet air.

"I wanna hear you say it," Red says.

"Thought I was pretty clear," Sans says. "What do you want me to do, beg?"

"Yeah," Red says. He circles Sans's clit with his thumb, slow, barely touching, and he must be able to feel Sans shake. "I do. Ask me real nice."

Sans swallows. He can still feel the outline of Red’s fingers on his spine. "Please."

"That's the most half-assed begging I've ever heard in my life," Red says, bored. "You can do better than that."

"Please, I want you to do whatever you want?” Sans tries. “I don't fucking know. You're the one with the blank check. You wanna hurt me or something?"

"Aw, honey, no. I'm not gonna hurt you." It should be reassuring but the look on Red's face is anything but. "Pain ain't gonna get to you. You just shove it down and take it. You go somewhere in your head where you don’t gotta feel it. What's a little more when you're already this fucked up? No, sweetheart. I'm gonna make it good for you."

Between their bodies, something moves. It twines up the inside of Sans's thigh, hot and slick and alive. Sans stiffens and says, his voice a little too high, "What the fuck--"

In the living room, the front door opens. 

Red's head snaps up, his eyes going wild, and then he looks back at Sans. Their eyes meet and they see right through each other.

It turns out that when it comes down to it, Sans is just a tiny bit faster.

They're plastered all over each other. Where Sans goes, Red goes. A shortcut and they're in the living room, vertical now, another dizzying lurch as everything tilts on its axis. (This is the wrong part of the living room, this isn't where he was aiming--) Red snarls, yanking back, and only the fact that he's more disoriented than Sans for a second that allows Sans to turn his soul blue and send him crashing back into Edge.

Bless Edge's fast reflexes because he grabs Red around the ribs, and Red is officially not going anywhere without him. Game over. They both stare at Sans with matching expressions of shock that are really fucking funny until he remembers that his pants are around his ankles and Edge can see his junk.

Yanking his shorts back up, Sans says, "I think you lost this."

Edge's eyes rake Sans, taking in the bruise around his throat, the state he and Red are in. The look Edge gives him says he's about to decide he has two problems right now instead of one. Sans shakes his head, trying to radiate his overall okayness.

There are indeed tentacles between Red’s legs, vivid and squirming like live things. Sans thinks of them inside him, maybe two of them twined together, stretching him open, and he blushes hotter. Almost wondering, Red says, "You sneaky little bastard."

"This is all you," Sans says to Edge. He's not equipped to deal with Red when he's like this, not like Edge is. Red doesn't need him except as a handy body to fuck. Sans is just a distraction for them both at this point, and they've got shit to handle. Still, he asks, "You got this?"

“Yes," Edge says. Red is struggling (but not hard, not like he thinks he's going to get free) and Edge barely seems to notice. "Go."

"Thanks." Sans meets Red's eyes and oh yeah, it's written all over Red's face. Sans is gonna pay for this later. That's fine. He's maybe looking forward to it. "Have fun, buddy."

And then he's gone.

***

Red laughs.

That’s all he’s got. The world is hilarious, the mother of all dead baby jokes strung together. The LV is riding him hard, the inside of his head all shrill laughter, and ain’t _that_ just great fucking timing. Ain’t that just priceless.

“Hey, bro,” he says, leaning back into Edge’s body. The violence is brimming in his marrow. He’s jittering. “You wanna see if the third time’s the charm?”

Edge whips him around to better glare down at him. He’s smart, keeping his hand locked in the front of Red’s shirt, but he might as well not bother. Red isn’t a one trick pony. He’s not going anywhere, not when Edge looks angry enough to give him what he needs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Edge demands.

Red grins up at him. “Woulda thought that’d be obvious by now, Paps. I figured you’d be happy. I didn’t kill anybody. That’d have been hard to explain to Undyne, huh? This one’s a little anti-murder.”

“No,” Edge says tightly, “you just went and found the one person you could kill if you got careless and decided to choke him.”

Red snorts. “Good thing you ain’t the judge because you’ve got him all wrong. I was just gonna get in his face and have a little talk about you. He’s the one who decided to jump on my dick. Speaking of, didja get a good look at his junk?”

“I was somewhat distracted by you making stupid, reckless decisions,” Edge says. “We’re not talking about Sans. He’s not mine to deal with. You are.”

“What’re you so worried about?” Red demands. His grin is hurting his face. “I thought you were all about how _different_ things are. We’re safe now. Nothing bad ever happens here, right?” 

Edge looks at him, his face like stone, not giving him any reaction, not giving him anything. 

Red’s thoughts are one long scream. He grabs his collar right by the buckle. “Guess I don’t even need this anym--”

Before he can blink, he’s facedown on the fucking floor, his soul blue, his arms twisted behind him, Edge’s hand around his wrists, Edge’s knee digging into his spine. Edge says in his ear. “Congratulations, brother. You have my complete attention.”

Red laughs again. Can’t help it. It’s just too fucking funny, the relief he feels from being knocked around. Finally, Edge gets with the fucking program. All Red had to do was hammer on every button he could find. “You think I want your anything, _sweetheart_?”

At the last word, he tries to throw Edge off and into the wall. It rocks Edge a little. Not much. It’s not exactly a surprise attack. It only makes Edge bear him down harder into the floor. There’s going to be a bruise in the shape of Edge’s pointy-ass knee in the middle of his spine.

Coldly amused, all the frustration stripped from his voice, Edge says, “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Red doesn’t answer except with the rising whine of a blaster. It doesn’t get as far as firing. Edge hooks two fingers under Red’s collar and yanks back, pulling his head up off the floor and forcing his spine into an unnatural arch that hurts like hell. Red’s air cuts off and with it goes his concentration. No more blaster.

He doesn’t need oxygen. That’s never stopped his body from freaking out every time it’s cut off, some vestigial survival instinct that fires no matter how much rationality tells it to shut up. It’s hard to think around it. No magic. He struggles instead, yanking at Edge’s grip on his wrists, trying to twist sideways under him and roll him off. It just makes the collar dig harder into his throat. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Edge asks. He’s not even winded, the bastard.

Red fights until the magic between his bones burns like it’s going to tear him apart and leave him scattered across the floor in pieces. His HP ticks down one point, then two, and then he feels the merciless heat of Edge healing him back up to full. He snarls, a throat-shredding noise, and Edge puts a little more pressure on the collar.

Red doesn’t win fights with endurance, just with overkill, and his two biggest weapons (his magic and his mouth) are out of reach. He runs out of gas. Of course he does. He thinks of the Lab, the corridor by the elevators where everything changed, and he’d laugh if he could. Same shit, different day. Can’t say they aren’t consistent.

When he goes limp under Edge, Edge waits him out. Another minute passes. Between the oxygen deprivation, the adrenaline, and the double coitus interruptus, Red’s so fucking close he could go off if Edge laid a finger on his junk. He makes a noise that’s half wheeze and half whine.

Edge says, clear and blunt, “I’m sorry.”

And, well, look at that. Turns out Red has a little more fight in him. He jerks against Edge’s grip and nearly manages to rip himself free. He doesn’t, though, and his anger is like flash paper, there and gone, leaving only smoke to show it was there.

When he’s quiet again, Edge says, “It’s my responsibility to know how far to push you. I misjudged.” Red tries to shake his head because no, fuck that, Edge doesn’t owe him reasonable explanations, but only pulls at the collar. He’s going to look like a strangling victim after this. Edge continues, his voice harder, “You shouldn’t have left.”

Edge doesn’t let go of the collar all at once, just uses it to lower Red’s head back down to the floor. Red probably would’ve ended up with a concussion if he tried it otherwise; his spine feels like water. When the pressure slackens, Red sucks in a painful breath, his head swimming. He could maybe manage an attack now that he can breathe, he could try, but he doesn’t. When Edge shifts his weight, his leather jacket brushing against the inside of Red’s ribcage as he reaches for Red’s soul, Red doesn’t fight at all.

Edge’s hands are bare. When he closes his fingers around Red’s soul, bringing it out, his presence in Red’s head is another weight pressing him into the floor. Edge doesn’t go poking or prying but he gets a taste of what the inside of Red’s mind has felt like all day. The connection doesn’t go two ways, not really; Red can’t see into Edge like Edge can see into him right now, not unless he had Edge’s soul in his hand, but he feels Edge’s grim resolve. Red is broken and Edge is going to goddamn well fix him.

(Finally.)

Edge digs his thumb into Red’s soul, deep and slow and bruising pressure into the softest part of him. Red chokes on the intimacy of the pain. It feels like Edge’s thumb will drive right through the surface of his soul and into him. He knows Edge is too careful for that, he knows that Edge has never hurt him doing this before, but simple animal panic wells up in him. It’s hard to keep still. Edge is all deliberate calm and that’s the only thing that keeps him from fighting to get away from the pain he asked for.

“You’re mine,” Edge says. He doesn’t have to; it radiates through the connection between them, feral and hot. “Nothing changes that. _No one_ changes that. Not our universe and not this one. You’re mine and I’m keeping you.”

The pain and Edge’s intent, his pure stubborn will, twine together into one thing. They pierce through him, crowding out all the panic, the bullshit in his head, crowding out everything. There’s nowhere to go. Time scatters like dust. Pain makes every second seem longer. He’s making noises but he’s only aware of it because it hurts his throat, tiny little sparks of pain against the looming shadow of what Edge is doing to him.

(For him.)

His pulse slows. Everything slows. It almost hurts as much as he deserves. 

And then that crushing pressure is gone. 

He washes up into his body, blinking against the stars in his eyes. The echoes of that pain still reverberate like he’s a gong somebody banged on, fading sullenly. He realizes that at some point, Edge let go of his wrists. He could wipe his wet face. He doesn’t. He makes a broken sound instead.

“No,” Edge says as if Red spoke. “That’s enough.”

It’s as much as he’s getting. His soul is going to hurt like a bad bruise tomorrow. He’ll need it, the proof that he’s alive and that Edge will put him down if he has to. That everything is under control even if his busted-up mind isn’t.

As the pain recedes, there’s enough mental bandwidth for Red to feel that Edge is hard where his dick is pressed against Red’s spine. Probably has been for a while. He likes it when Red struggles, his sadistic streak a mile wide even when he’s trying to be all business. Red doesn’t have to peer into his brain to know that. He tries to tilt his hips back invitingly but just kind of grinds his junk against the floor. The friction wakes up his aching magic and his breath shudders out on a moan.

Edge huffs a laugh, amused and indulgent. With light fingers, only the ghost of pressure, he strokes the surface of Red’s soul. It hurts even as it satisfies. It isn’t going to take much. Red arches under him, trying to convey how hot and willing he is, how goddamn thrilled he’d be to take Edge’s dick. Instead he feels the heat of Edge’s breath on his soul, then the hot drag of his tongue. Red jerks, whines and comes for him, seeing the flash of light from even with his eyes squeezed helplessly shut. He shoves as much of that feeling back through the connection, trying to drag Edge down with him, but gets only Edge grinding once against his spine before stilling himself.

Then Red is panting on the floor, a ruin of sweat and jizz and tears, wrung out. He closes his eyes and seriously considers the merits of passing out. The pros list gets longer when he feels the trickle of healing magic being pushed into his soul, undoing whatever damage Edge might’ve done even though he’s too ( _cool_ ) controlled to have slipped like that. It’s gentle, though. Edge is apparently trying not to mindfuck him into the floor. Shame.

“Honestly, brother,” Edge says without any heat. “The carpet is going to be stained already.”

Red tries to summon the energy to bitch that Edge isn’t going to be the poor bastard trying to get it out with the stain cleaner tomorrow so the living room doesn’t look like a murder scene. Fails. Just grumbles a little.

Edge’s weight on his back shifts and then he’s reaching under Red’s ribs again to replace his soul. When Edge lets go of his soul, the quiet in his head is loud. He takes a moment to feel stupidly bereft. But it’s not as bad as it was before Edge hurt him, the jagged edges of his thoughts realigning until they won’t shred him if he breathes wrong, and that’s about as good as it’s ever going to get. Lightly, Edge pets the back of his neck, lingering on the collar. Then he climbs off, leather creaking as he gets to his feet. 

Red doesn’t move. After a moment, the toe of Edge’s boot nudges him in the ribs. He still doesn’t move. He’s fine here, thanks. He’ll just let the drying jizz glue him to the carpet.

Edge sighs. Then he rolls Red onto his back with his boot. Red squints against the light for a second before Edge’s shadow blocks it out as Edge bends over him and scoops him up off the floor. It’s nothing Edge hasn’t done to him before, when Red is drunk or too fucking depressed to drag himself out of bed, but normally Edge slings him over his shoulder like a useless sack of laundry. This time he holds Red to his chest like he does when Red makes some stupid mistake or another and ends up too hurt or exhausted from fighting to walk.

Dangerous. It’s like Edge missed the whole point of this little trainwreck. Red’s too fucking tired to throw down but he should open his mouth and ream him out. He doesn’t. He stays flopped against Edge’s chest, his face resting on Edge’s shoulder. He can hear Edge’s soul beating, steady and unflinching.

“Idiot,” Edge says softly.

“Fuck you,” Red rasps.

(What if they never go back?)

He closes his eyes and decidedly doesn’t rub his cheek against Edge’s shoulder. It’s just the jouncing of Edge’s steps eating up the space from the living room to the bathroom. It’s not a long trip. Edge doesn’t flip the cruelly bright lights on like he does when Red is hungover. He closes the door behind them, sealing them in comfortable darkness.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. He must be losing his mind.

(What if they never go back?)

Quietly, Red says, “Uh. Hey.”

“What?” Edge says irritably, already shifting to put him down.

“Thanks.”

Edge pauses. He doesn’t say anything. But when he puts Red down in the tub, his hands are gentle. When he turns on the shower, the water that drums down on Red’s back is soothingly warm. The sound of it falling almost covers Edge’s quiet answer of, “Always.”

***

After Sans is home and can shove his face in his mattress and rub off three humiliating times, biting his hoodie to keep quiet, his head is finally clear enough to think.

Three feet. The shortcut ended up three fucking feet to the left of where he was aiming.

He's never been off. His shortcuts came with a weirdly specific spatial awareness; he could close his eyes and map to the smallest atoms the layout of any room he's ever been in, easy. Even distracted by adrenaline and a raging clit-boner, he shouldn't have missed by a fraction of a millimeter, let alone three fucking feet.

Loss of control over magic, the book said. It's one of the symptoms of a cracked soul, one of the bad ones. He knew something was seriously fucked, considering Red's whole rant about how touching his soul wouldn't hurt a bit, but...

Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he just misjudged because he'd been a little distracted by the tentacles sliding up his leg. And hey, maybe the universe would send him a sincere letter of apology and a cookie while he was at this wishful thinking bullshit. Might as well go whole hog.

It's been literally years since he shaped an attack. (This timeline, anyway.) A blaster would be overkill, especially if it turns out his control is on the fritz. Just a nice, normal bone attack. A moment's concentration and then it's resting in his hands, perfectly balanced, perfectly normal. It doesn't crumble as he watches or explode or anything unexpected, just... exists.

Maybe he's okay. Still massively fucked up, but not actively going to end up in a wall the next time he takes a shortcut.

Yeah. Or maybe he's going to be taking the goddamn bus to work just to be sure. That's gonna be awkward to explain, (for one thing, his hot dog cart and delivery jobs are out of the question until he fixes this) but not as awkward as death by splinching would be. At least Grillby will probably let him wash dishes to make up for the lost cash.

This is getting out of control. He has no idea what he's doing, seeing as he can't even touch his soul longer than a couple seconds without nearly blacking out from the pain. No matter what Red said, he doesn’t actually want to die. He just wants to ignore it until it goes away. But if the symptoms get worse, Papyrus is going to notice or Edge is going to decide to do something about it and then everything’s going to spiral completely out of his control. He should just suck it up and take Red up on that offer.

But Red's not in a position to help anybody else right now, is he. Who knows when he’ll be in a better headspace. He doesn’t need to deal with Sans’s bullshit on top of his own.

With a twist of his wrist, the bone attack dissolves into thin air. He pulls the book out of his inventory and opens it to the page marked **SOUL MANIPULATION**.

Time for take four.

Before he can even reach his arm under his hoodie, though, his phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. Alarm stabs at him. He yanks the phone out, braced for a text from Edge in the usual all caps saying... what, that Red got loose and hurt himself? Hurt Edge? Killed somebody? Sans doesn't even fucking know what he expects.

It's not from Edge. The text just says _u ok?_ Three casual letters, like the fact that Red's even asking doesn't say pretty much everything.

Sans texts back, _gonna take more than some hentai to rattle me. don't flatter yourself. u ok?_

 _y_ is the terse text back. Probably means 'not really but I'm okay enough to bother to lie about it'. Better than Sans expected, really.

It's not until the small hours of the morning, when he's staring at the ceiling with his soul still a burning pissed-off coal in his chest, that the phone vibrates again. Sans picks it up, squinting against the light, and reads, _we ok?_

Like it actually matters to Red. Sans doesn't want any part of the way that tugs at him. He texts _y_ , puts the phone down and closes his eyes. After a less than a minute, he reopens the phone and adds, _dumbass_.

Red replies back with a middle finger emoji. Sans sends back three of them. Then he drops his phone on his mattress and closes his eyes again, for real this time. He’s gotten the last word. He can probably sleep now.

"Uncomplicated," he says to himself, like the reminder will help anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy. Sex between Red and Edge goes wrong and ends with a safeword. Red threatens and then chokes Sans, even if Sans turns out to be into it. Sans makes more bad sex decisions. Basically Red, Edge and Sans all fail at functional poly and kink and make bad decisions but things end up basically okay.


End file.
